


hands down

by seabear



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Adrenaline Junkie Kindergarten Teacher - Eren, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Directionless Chickflick Watching Photographer - Jean, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Social Media, Twenty-Somethings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:29:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3735805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seabear/pseuds/seabear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Jean takes a draw off his cigarette, then exhales.  “Eren Jaeger proposed to me last night in a painkiller induced haze.”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: After breaking an arm and a leg, Eren Jaeger asks Jean to marry him while hopped up on some killer pain meds. Jean, who's known Eren since middle school and has been in love with him about as long, is at a loss. Everyone else is just kind of over it. Including the garage roof.
> 
> The second chapter will be the events of the same story, but told from Eren's POV with extra scenes here and there.

_“What do you mean he’s in the hospital?”_

“I mean Eren fell off the garage roof,” Armin repeats slowly, voice distant sounding through the phone, “and now he’s in the hospital.”

“Who the hell--” Jean drags his free hand down his face, eyes clenched shut. He can just picture it so fucking perfectly. “Is-is he okay, or whatever?”

“He’ll be fine, but right now--no, stop, don’t do that!” there are muffled voices, something crashing against the floor in the background. “Listen, Jean, you need to get down here.”

“Armin, wait, why--”

The line cuts. Not even a dial tone when anything, even the tick of a clock or the hum of traffic would’ve helped to anchor his wildfire thoughts, to put his heart back in his chest, to keep his hands from shaking. He’s fine. Armin says he’s fine, and he is, and part of Jean realizes how ridiculous this whole situation is, how funny it’ll be tomorrow. Oh man, so funny. Hilarious. An absolute riot.

Jean winds up dropping his phone in a scramble for his keys, rushing out the door and barely remembering to slam it shut behind him.

\--

The doors open in a whoosh, the the smell of antiseptic heavy enough that it feels like its coating Jean’s skin as he walks into the lobby, blindingly white. He winces, wondering what the hell it is he’s trying to do when suddenly Armin’s there, pulling him by the wrist.

“He’s going into surgery in a few minutes, but he says he won’t do it until he sees you,”

Jean splutters, “Me? Why the hell is he asking for me?”

Armin turns sharply on his heel, serving a dry look, one that spans back endlessly in Jean’s memory, as countless as the times they’ve been near each other. Knowing, exasperated, expectant. It doesn’t just belong to Amrin--it belongs to every one of Jean’s long suffering friends who all seem to be keen on the answer to a question Jean doesn’t think he’s ever even asked out loud.

Especially now with his fried half-thoughts, left out under the heat-lamp fluorescent lights, nose burning with every inhale, eyes dry and throat tight. Armin whips back around, pushing forward down the hall with once last pointed glare, not even bothering to ask Jean to follow.

He hears Eren before he sees them.

“--’s not here,” Eren’s on the floor with his arms wrapped around the base of the hospital bed, locked just above the wheel, eyes lifting from Mikasa (who looks like she’s about to throw him across the room single handedly). “Jean!”

He’s fine. He’s being a fuck, so he’s _fine,_ even if he’s got dirt smeared up the side of his face along with the red lines of simple scratches, some nice bruises already starting to darken up his arm, around his eye. Eren’s fine. Jean breathes out, unable to keep something a little too soft for Eren Jaeger and Jean Kirchsetin out of his voice as he walks over, squatting down next to him. “The hell’re you doing on the floor, idiot?”

“Waiting,” Eren shrugs, like he’s not on the floor of a hospital room looking completely blissed out, eyes big and shining, face pink. Whatever drugs they’ve got him on must be good, though it honestly wouldn’t take much to get Eren Straightedge Jaeger blasted. Jean’s seen the guy get loopy from a couple of benadryl. He blinks, slow with his smile spreading as he waves his phone, “I just followed you on Instagram.”

Jean and Mikasa help hoist Eren back up onto the bed, Jean keeping his eyes trained on the blue polka dot pattern on the hospital gown and not Eren’s bare legs.

A hand grips at Jean’s bicep, tight enough to hurt. He looks at Eren. “What?”

Those bright eyes bear into him. Jean thinks Eren really has to be doped out of his mind--it’s a kind of unspoken agreement they have, that they don’t follow each other on social media stuff. They’re not friends, so why would they? That being said, neither of them have anything set to private. Jean’s spent an uncomfortable amount of time stalking through Eren’s shit, though, and his instagram is particularly stupid. He posts motivational quotes about fitness and healthy living and memes that stopped being funny three years ago. All the pictures he takes himself abuse the worst filters, are usually blurry, and make Jean smile in the darkness of his bedroom at two in the morning because they’re just _so Eren._

The door opens, everyone's attention turning to Eren's dad as he glides into the room, tails of his (so, so, so white) labcoat floating behind him.

“Oh good, you got him back on the bed,” Dr. Jaeger tilts his head, picking the clipboard up from the nearby table. “Are you happy now, Eren?”

His hold on Jean’s arm tightens. “I'm not leavin'.”

“Eren, the faster we operate, the faster we can get you out of here,” Dr. Jaeger sighs, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “We’ve waited long enough.”

“Not until Jean says yes,” Eren’s frantic now, staring up at Jean as the nurses file in, taking up the locks on the wheels and getting ready to move the bed. 

Jean squints, trying to pull his arm back. “The hell’re you--”

“Marry me,” Eren’s grip is a vice, hard enough to bruise, and Jean thinks he must’ve heard wrong. Because there’s no way. No way, until Eren says it again, tugging on Jean’s arm harder, “I want you to marry me.”

“I--” Jean’s eyes flitter around the room. Everyone is watching them, a deep seated heat blooming brutally in Jean’s face. He yanks his arm back harder. “Stop fucking around, Eren.”

“I can’t go ‘til you say yes,” Eren swallows. “I can’t go. What if I don’t come back?”

“You’re getting your bones put back in place,” Jean yanks harder, but he’s worried he’ll pull Eren off the bed again if he tries to hard. “Not open heart surgery. Let go, Eren.”

Eren grins, lazy and wide. “You should put ‘em back into place by jumpin’ ‘em.”

There is no blood below Jean’s chest right now--it’s all in his face, so hot he actually feels dizzy. He hears Mikasa try to smother her laugh with a cough. Armin elbows her, but he’s sucked his lips in, too, trying not to grin.

Eren takes his hand and brings it to his lips, pressing then against Jean’s knuckles and saying in possibly the smallest voice that’s ever come out of Eren Jaeger's atom bomb body, “Marry me?”

Jean crumbles.

“Fine! Yes, okay?” Jean puts a hand over his burning face. _“Yes.”_

When he peeks down through his fingers, the smile Eren is giving him is so openly warm it hurts to look at.

“Ready, Eren?” the nurse asks, the bed already being pushed towards the door.

“Petra,” Eren turns to look at her. “Petra, I’m getting married.”

“I heard,” she smiles as they wheel the Eren out the door. “Be sure to send me an invite, okay?”

\--

“You look like shit.”

Jean lifts his head from where it was hanging between his knees, unlit cigarette between his fingers that he’s been meaning to smoke for the last half hour while everyone else waits inside. He couldn’t be in there, all of them pointedly trying not to look at him, and the smell, and the feeling of Eren’s phantom touch still branded into his skin, shape of his mouth burnt into Jean’s knuckles. He scrubs a hand over his face.

Levi’s standing by the back entrance steps, green scrubs, tossing a lighter up and down with ease as he glides over, tossing it at Jean who barely reacts in time to catch it. Bracing a hand against the wall Jean stands, lighting up and watching the smoke drift up over them.

“Heard about your betrothal,” Levi lights the cigarette he had tucked behind his ear. “Mazel tov.”

Even though it's a chilly November night, Jean feels sweat prickling at his hairline, the back of his neck, heat in his face trying to defy the one in his lungs as he inhales a little too quick. He’s just staying until he gets the word that Eren’s out of surgery, then he’ll go home. “Isn’t it a little hypocritical? For a nurse to be smoking, I mean.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time you need a quick ‘script for xanax because you,” Levi uses air quotes, _“‘get nervous on airplanes.’”_

“I do get nervous on airplanes.”

“Kirschtein, you get nervous crossing the street,” Levi exhales, sharp and pointed. Jean calls it the Mad Men exhale, at which point Eren would look at him, shake his head and go _you would fucking watch Mad Men._

Jean’s stomach gives a good twist.

“Yeah, well, not all of us can be white water rafting, base jumping, suicidal assholes,” he mumbles. He saw the facebook album of Eren and Levi’s trip out to to the Maria Desert, fucking flinging themselves off of cliffs and free falling into oblivion like they just didn’t care.

Okay, like a shit ton of other hospital staff went too, plus Mikasa, but in the pictures it was always Eren and Levi. Eren and Levi checking each other’s equipment, Eren and Levi tossing each other water bottles, Eren and Levi being best friggin’ friends even though they’re like, almost seven hundred years apart in age.

“You’re trying to insult me,” Levi brings the cigarette back up to his mouth. “But all you’re doing is sounding like a jealous brat.”

Jean is so, so over blushing.

“But y’know,” Levi tosses the butt on the ground, stomping it out with the heel of his--Jesus--his crocs. “I’m not the one he proposed to.”

“That’s--” Jean tries, but even if he could think of the words, Levi’s already walking back up towards the entrance.

“He’s fine, by the way,” is all Levi says. “They wheeled him out a few minutes ago.”

Jean hates the relief he feels, hates that it would’ve knocked him over if the brick wall wasn’t there to catch him.

\--

He and Eren met the first day of sixth grade, and they both have extremely different versions of how it went down, but the gist of it is: there was a desk, they both wanted it, neither of them got it.

“Not just a desk,” Jean always tells anyone who’s willing to listen. Or even when they’re not. _“The desk._ The desk to top all desks. The far left corner desk--total blindspot for the teacher, and right by the windows, and right by the back bookshelves where I could put my stuff down instead of on the floor.”

And Eren will always shrug and say, “I was there first.”

At which point the conversation will rapidly dissolve into a fight, exactly like it did over a decade earlier. Except this time no one pays them any mind--there aren’t any teachers to pull them apart, no classmates cheering them on, only well-worn friends rolling their eyes to accompany the drawn out sighs that clearly spell out _here we go again_ with the absolute minimum amount of fondness.

From that point on, Jean had hoped Eren would just be a phantom floating in his peripheral vision, an occasional twitch in his eye from the residual memory of what would be known all throughout middle school as The Desk Incident. (That’s what Jean called it, at least. Mostly everyone would only refer to it with, “hey remember that time those two dumbasses got into a fight over a fucking desk?”)

But more often than not, Eren Jaeger was always in front of him, standing his ground and refusing to budge even an inch for like lowly likes of Jean Kirchstein. Mostly because the public school deities had seen it fit to put them in the same schedule rotation for the rest of their academic careers. There wasn’t a year that went by where Jean didn’t have at least four out of nine periods with the kid.

Even after graduation, Jean still couldn’t shake the kid. They had the same friends, constantly orbiting each other and and then colliding at the worst possible moments when Jean always felt his rawest, frayed open by the uncertainty of everything around him. Everyone from home under his skin in the worst way but everyone new seeming grossly fake and unapproachable, his parents splitting, his motivation nonexistent.

Jean went to Trost community for two years then transferred to Sina, but every winter and summer break Eren would be there, stuck in the corners of parties and tacked to the backseats of full-up cars bustling down to the shore, up to the mountains and everywhere in between. Jean didn’t get it--the kid didn’t even drink or smoke or anything, why the fuck did he hang around these people for? Jean loves his friends, but they’re trashy fucking idiots who get wasted on Nattys and light junkyard cars on fire in Sasha’s forty-fucking-acre backyard, toke up on apartment rooftops and never sleep, make scenes in supermarkets and never take anything too seriously even though they’re all well into their twenties now. 

Jean doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get Eren. That used to be just fine when they were bulldozing each other over in the hallways and trying to outdo each other answering questions in class or boarding down Dead Man’s Bend in a winner take all race. It was fine before trying to beat on Eren wasn’t just so he could feel that skin under his hands, that body against his own. It was fine before the healthy burn of competition that used to light his chest on fire moved lower, hotter, sharper. Now he still doesn’t get Eren, but he wants to.

He picks up the phone he left in the foyer when he get back home, notification letting him know jaegerphotobomb started following him. He presses his forehead against the screen.

God, he wants to.

\--

He isn't going back to the hospital, he decides. He doesn't think anyone will even ask him, after everything, but regardless Jean knows he can't. Not when a high as shit Eren is waiting for him there, in a flimsy hospital gown that let Jean see the smooth dip of his lower back, the dimples just above the waistband of his boxers. Not when he really, _really_ wants to. That’s the most terrifying part--that he wants to hear what that Eren has to say. He wants to know how deep that Eren goes and how real the stuff he said was and Jean just-- 

He can’t let himself do that. 

His phone buzzes, the screen lit up with Marco’s name. “‘Sup?””

“Listen,” Marco says. “I’m on my lunch, I’ve had two kids puke today, I’m introducing fractions later, and they all came back from art covered in glitter. Please, please, _please_ tell me something to take my mind off of this day.”

Jean takes a draw off his cigarette, then exhales. “Eren Jaeger proposed to me last night in a painkiller induced haze.”

A pause, and then, “Holy. _Shit._ That works--what the hell happened?”

“He fell off his garage,” Jean snubs the cig out on his balcony rail, not feeling it. “So I went to the hospital, and he was so high he asked me to marry him and wouldn’t stop until I said yes.”

Marco starts coughing.

Jean sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

“Oh my god,” Marco gasps. “I’m your best man, right?”

“I told you.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Marco lies. “So are you taking his last name, or are you guys gonna go for a hyphen deal?”

“I’m hanging up on you,” Jean glowers at the skyline. 

“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that--”

“Good bye,” Jean jams this thumb against the screen, ending the call. Marco sends him a text seconds later, just reading, _you suck!!!! see if i get you the salad spinner off your registry now!!_ Jean hangs his head, a gust of cool wind whipping through his tiny terrace, bringing with it that strange feeling. That almost impossible feeling of restlessness coupled with the absolutely zero motivation to do anything. He sighs, and heads back inside.

He doesn’t leave his apartment that weekend. Other people honestly seem like too much effort, and the appeal of wearing the same pair of sweats and channel surfing for hours on end is too strong. He lets his phone die and loses it somewhere in a basket of laundry, content to melt into the sofa cushions and watch shit TV to his gross, throbbing heart’s content.

Some channel is showing the same three movies on rotation for days. He sees _27 Dresses_ probably five times total, watching Katherine Heigl’s character chase after her boss even though it’s super fucking evident within the first minute of the movie that she’s gonna end up with James Marsden. Bright eyed, perfect meld between pretty boy and devil-may-care charm, cheekbones that could cut fucking glass, classic jerk with a secret heart of gold James Marsden who kind of looks like--

Jean leans forward, elbows against his knees, rubbing at his face.

The sun bleeds into the sky as the clock hits six, and Jean feels some exhausted drive to go, move, do _something,_ feeling like his apartment walls are judging him and his sweat pants in the same calculatingly quiet way his mother always used to. He winds up grabbing a hoodie from out of the sofa cushions, slipping his sandals on over his socks, and heading down to the park a block down and over.

It’s cold, but after three days of the cloying heat of his apartment it feels good, the sting in his cheeks and ears as he walks back towards the pond, something settling inside his chest.

A voice calls from the benches, “Jean?”

“Armin,” Jean turns his head so quickly his neck twinges. He winces, rubbing it as Armin makes his way over, decked out in a sleek peacoat, real-world pants. Jean shrugs into himself, hands in his pockets, trying not to think about the fact that he definitely smells like day old mac n’ cheese. “The hell’re you doing here?”

“Bird migration,” Armin holds ups a small notebook, like that means something. “You, uh. You okay?”

“I--yeah,” Jean rubs at his face distractedly, feeling the scruff that’s grown there. He must look like an absolute prize. “Just wanted to get some fresh air.”

“Don’t get much of that when you spend the entire weekend in your apartment, huh?” Armin asks, smile simple.

Jean scowls. He remembers why he generally avoids Armin. The kid sees all and knows all.

“Wanna sit with me?” he asks, but there’s the clear undercurrent of _a talk_ that makes Jean hunch his shoulders and bite at his lip before following Armin to the closest bench anyway.

They sit in silence, the distant sounds of the city matched with the sweet sounds of park life. The whir of bike chains, the rhythmic pat of early morning joggers, chirping birds as the sun spills over the trees and the pond in pockets of light yellow that make Jean think about the wallpaper in his childhood house, faded and dotted with tiny flowers that line the entire foyer, all the way up the staircase. Once when he was eight he tore a peeling piece off at the seam at the top of the steps and got absolute hell for it. There’s a picture of it on instagram, from the last time he visited his mom. He wonders if Eren’s seen it.

“Eren’s fine, by the way,” Armin says. “Turns out he had a fractured ulna, too.”

Jean glowers at the tree line, wishing he had a cigarette. “What kind of idiot falls off a goddamn garage roof--the hell was he even doing up there in the first place?”

“He says it’s the only place he gets good service, but I also think he hides up there when he doesn't want us teasing him,” Armin shrugs, writing something down his his little notebook. “Makes me wonder who he was trying to text.”

Jean frowns. Now he wants to know, too. He remembers texting Eren earlier that night, their usual schtick of sending each other increasingly gross pictures of Guy Fieri, and--

Jean pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt immediately and pivots himself towards the dirt path, drawing his knees up to his chest, face burning.

Armin leans forward, looking as sly as someone who still wears his hair in bowl cut possibly can. “Jean.”

“Shut up,” Jean pulls at the hood strings, closing it around his face until he can’t see Armin’s, but somehow it’s worse because he knows Armin is still just staring at him. He rips the hood back, baring his teeth as he snaps, “It’s not like that--”

“I swear,” Armin shakes his head, eyes turning back down to his book at he scribbles something. “He literally asked you to marry him, and you’re acting like it didn’t happen--why? So you two can keep up this exhausting game of _I’m too emotionally stunted to deal with my obvious feelings?_ Isn’t it getting old by now?”

Jean squints. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Armin’s notebook snaps shut, huge eyes rounding on Jean with a glare so ferocious he could’ve only picked it up from Mikasa. “You know, Jean.”

Jean swallows.

“Like how you know why he doesn’t hate you,” Armin says, “You know why he kept asking to see you at the hospital. You know why you dropped everything and rushed there. You know why he asked you to marry him, because of the drugs or not, and you know exactly why you meant it when you said yes.”

For the record, this is the kid who got emotional dissecting frogs in science class and cried when Ms. Zoe found a dead baby mouse inside one of the stomachs. This kid who walks to the park at five in the morning to watch birds. The kid who just cut into Jean’s core with such ruthless precision Jean thinks his body might be going into shock.

“I’m heading back now,” Armin adjusts his bag over his shoulder. “See you at Christa’s?”

Jean blinks. “Oh, uh, yeah. Is--”

“Yes, Eren’s going,” Armin says with a smile that’s equal parts tired and fond. “Even if Mikasa has to break his other two limbs, he’s going.”

Jean suddenly finds the stain on the left leg of his sweats fascinating. He can’t remember if it’s from the can of SpaghettiOs or the frozen pizza. “See you there, then.”

“Right,” Armin’s foot steps start receding down the path, and then, “And Jean?”

Jean looks up.

“You’re not in sixth grade anymore,” is all he says, walking backwards a few steps before turning on his heel and heading towards the front gates, leaving Jean staring at his retreating back until it’s obscured by the trees.

\--

It’s Christa’s huge ass post-Halloween, pre-Thanksgiving party on her family’s giant ass estate that no one’s ever in, so it’s not like Jean can’t go. He always goes. Everyone does.

Eren always goes.

Eren who doesn’t drink, or smoke, or dance, or hook up, or do anything, but who still goes to parties. Eren, who’s into taking care of himself and the people around him, who’s instagram consists of views from hiking trails and lookout points and pictures of veggies from his backyard garden that Jean always stares at for a stupidly long amount of time. Eren, who is a fucking elementary school teacher who constantly smells like glue and peanut butters and jellies, shimmering with glitter, stickers stuck to his clothes.

And then there’s Jean, who’s a ‘photographer’ (whatever the hell that means) and still sells weed sometimes when he not doing so hot on cash, who smokes more than he should and eats at least three dinners a week out of the freezer. Jean, who’s almost twenty-seven and never got past his early college pattern of random hookups that left him feeling more jaded than anything, but any time he tries to figure out why he’s never been able to hold down a real relationship his thoughts always--

He closes his eyes, entire body throbbing with his heartbeat before he opens them again. He sits in his car for a good fifteen minutes, staring at the house’s lit up windows, the moving silhouettes of people inside, the faint sounds of music. Swallowing, he gets out.

“Yo Jean!” Sasha yells, waving an arm over his head from by the staircase. Then she turns, shouting, “Connie, he showed--you owe me ten bucks!”

“The one time I count on your emotional constipation, and you let me down, Jean,” Connie pulls out his wallet. 

Jean scowls. He hates his friends. Every last goddamn one of them.

“If it makes you feel better, everyone else thought you’d show,” Armin’s warm voice and warm hand is suddenly at Jean’s back. “Except for Reiner. And Ymir. And maybe like, five to twenty other people.”

“I need booze,” Jean grumbles, and heads back towards the kitchen.

There’s a sizable keg next to the table and a shit ton of liquor on the counter, and then there’s this bigass cooler that Jean is too intrigued by not to try. Steam rises up out of the cup as he pours some out, and the smell hits him almost immediately--hot apple cider. He sips. Non-alcoholic. Eren would-- 

Jean sighs. 

“He’s in the backyard.”

He turns, watching Mikasa walk in from the door. She glides, too, he realizes, like her feet aren’t even touching the ground. Eren walks like he’s part of the goddamn earth, like he can stomp through the floor straight to the ground. 

Mikasa floats over to the cider, filling up her own cup.

“You know, for such a self-interested guy, you don’t act on those feelings you mull over so much,” she sips. “It’s funny.”

She clearly doesn’t think it’s funny at all.

“It’s complicated,” is all he can think to say, then repeats it like a parrot, “It’s so complicated, y’know?”

“Because you’re the one overcomplicating it,” she shrugs, adjusting her scarf.

Jean wonders, not for the first time, if she can read minds. It used to cause him agony back when she was the premier figure in his weird-ass fourteen year old fantasies (most of which were World of Warcraft themed). He feels like he’s suddenly back there again, skinny idiot of a kid with a mouthful of metal that probably weighed more than the rest of him did, feeling impossibly small in the middle of such tall people and compensating for that like woah by spewing nonsense in every direction. It’s true. He feels so much, god, megatons of emotions that flood his thoughts every waking hour and shake his dreams, wracked constantly with the feeling that it’s not enough. He’s not enough, daydreaming of the countless ways his life could be so much more but always too terrified to even try and--

“It’s cold out,” Mikasa steps forward, looking Jean in the face. “Please make him come inside soon.”

She exits swiftly, smell of something sweet and earthy in her wake that makes Jean think of torn wallpaper and park benches.

\--

The yard’s pretty bare with almost-winter shaking at the tree branches, but the lights still come on, draped over the sunken garden and wound around pillars and the far line of trees, Eren sitting hunched at the top of the steps, shivering out in the cold without a jacket. There’s a single crutch on the ground next to him.

“Good to see they didn’t have to amputate,” Jean says, and Eren whips his head around, light pouring out from the patio doors illuminating his openly surprised expression. Jean traipses over, scuffing his shoes along the paving stones, making and drawn out ordeal out of hunkering down on the first couple of steps. He fishes out his pack and lighter, feeling Eren’s eyes on him as he lights up. “S’cold.”

“Then go back inside,” Eren draws his knee to his chest, arms circling around it.

“Nah,” Jean exhales, then holds the red cup he’d brought with him out. “Here.”

Eren eyes it. “I don’t--”

“It’s hot apple cider,” Jean’s words are muffled by his cigarette. 

Eren reaches his good hand out tentatively, taking it.

Jean can’t stop looking at the cast now. Looks like pretty much everyone’s signed it He motions to it, “How’re you broken limbs?”

“Fine,” Eren shrugs away, sipping from his drink now.

Jean grins. “You saved a place for me to sign, right?”

A snort. “Last thing I need is my kindergarteners seeing a giant dick drawn on my arm.”

“I would not draw a dick,” Jean points with his cigarette, bringing it back to his mouth again. “A very tasteful set of boobs, but not a dick.”

The joke doesn’t seem to have the desired effect--if anything, it makes Eren fall back into that moody, dejected look. Jean sighs, snubs out the butt, and flicks it to the bottom of the steps, before going, “Y’know, if we’re gonna get married you’re gonna have to learn to laugh at my jokes.”

Eren visibly tenses, plastic cup popping under the pressure of Eren’s clenching fingers. 

“C’mon,” Jean shoves at his shoulder. “You were high as balls. Everyone says weird shit when they’re high, it’s fine.”

“Shut up.”

Jean scowls. “Yo, fuck you, I was just trying to--”

“I know what you were trying to do, okay?” Eren’s voice rebounds in an echo over the garden. “You’re trying not to be a dick, which is just so against the nature of your being that even when you’re genuinely trying, you’re still being a dick, and I don’t want to sit here and listen to you brush everything off like it doesn't matter.”

“You were fucked up on pain meds and asking me to marry you,” Jean gets in his face, sneering. “I was just trying to--”

“To what? Let me off the hook? Pretend that it didn’t happen, or that it was a joke, or-or _whatever?”_ Eren’s eyes glint, even in the muted light. It used to freak the fuck out of Jean, when they were kids, when Jean was intent on hating every single part of Eren just for the sake of hating because Eren was the only one who ever pushed back. Who ever listened long enough to Jean to actually get mad at him, who ever noticed.

He cups the side of Eren’s face, tilting his head and pressing in for a kiss too soft for Eren Jaeger and Jean Kirschstein. But maybe after years of nothing but being brutal and raw and angry, a moment of softness is long overdue.

They pull back, Jean resting their foreheads together, simply saying, “No.”

Eren squeaks, “Are you drunk?”

Jean snorts. “No.”

“Are you high?!”

“No.”

A thin, stressed voice, “Am _I_ high?”

“Dunno,” Jean lifts his eyes, mouth in a half cocked grin, “Are you?”

“I think I am, yeah,” Eren falls forward again.

Eren’s mouth tastes like cider, so sweet and there’s no way he’s ever going to be able to untangle them with this moment, sitting in a dark garden and kissing Eren Jaeger breathless like he should’ve done when they were in the fucking sixth grade, or seventh, or tenth, or after graduation, or last year, last week, this morning. Jean pulls him in by the waist, and he can feel Eren’s cast heavy on Jean’s shoulder while his other hand curls around the side of Jean’s neck, kiss going from smacking to welded, deep, breath sharp and held. Eren’s thumb strokes at Jean’s jaw, and Jean can feel his own hands wandering up the back of Eren’s sweater, feeling the smooth skin there.

“This is--” Eren tries to say, pulling back, “I’ve wanted--”

“I know,” Jean murmurs against his mouth, “I know.”

They neck in the backyard of a house party, the dull thud of music reverberating through the patio as Jean tries not to laugh because it’s all just so high school.

He supposes they’ve got to make up for lost time.

\--

They’re lying in Eren’s bed later that night, Jean with his head on Eren’s stomach, going through their yearbook.

“Oh my god,” Eren laughs, point at a candid shot from freshman year, “The Tripp pants! I fucking forgot about the Tripp pants.”

“They were cool,” Jean insists, poking Eren’s side. “And just remember this was the year you got your fucking Backstreet Boys earring.”

“I can’t forget, because we got in a fight that one time in art and it got caught on your fucking wallet chain and got ripped out,” Eren turns the page, and starts cackling again. “Oh my god, then you ditched the emo thing and only wore polos with the collars popped.”

“I hate you,” Jean says, burying his face in Eren’s chest. “I hated you then, I hate you now.”

“And then senior year, the year of the ridiculous v-necks,” Eren flips through the senior portraits. “Oh man, who told you that much hair gel was a good idea?”

Jean snaps the book shut and throws it clear across the room, slinging a leg over Eren’s hips and pulling himself up to straddle him. “Okay, enough time reminiscing. We should, y’know, do some memory making instead.”

Eren squints up at him. “Has anyone actually told you how uncool you are? Because it’s kind of unbelievable.”

“Says the kid who used to pop a boner over my v-necks.”

“Speaking of boners…” Eren’s eyes stare pointedly at where Jean’s crotch is pressed against his. 

Jean falls forward onto his forearms, on boths sides of Eren’s head. He licks at his lip, biting it, watching Eren watch him. He likes this. He likes Eren focusing all that raw energy directly at Jean, the intensity of it enough to knock Jean breathless. It’s what he felt when they used to fight, having Eren’s attention just on him, but this is better. This is so much better. Eren moves his hand up Jean’s chest, large and warm and hooking behind his neck to draw Jean down into a kiss.

“Mmph,” Jean hums, trying to pull back as Eren starts pulling at his shirt. Eren looks annoyed when he sits up, but true to form doesn’t let it deter him, settling for taking off his own shirt instead. Or at least trying to. His broken arm seems to be setting him back, and Jean laughs. “Having some issues?”

“My issue is that I wanna fuck you,” Eren gets his head out, hair static smothered and sticking out, but the shirt is stuck on his arm. “Without these stupid casts on, _Jesus Christ.”_

“Calm down. You’ll hurt yourself, idiot,” Jean helps him with the shirt, taking it gently. He threads his fingers through Eren’s hair to push it back. “We could wait, y’know, it’s not a big deal.”

“I’m tired of waiting,” Eren says, leaning into Jean’s touch while his good hand slides up from Jean’s stomach, the center of his chest, slow and purposeful. “I wanna _feel_ you.”

Jean’s chest clenches, and he presses Eren back against the pillows, leaning in for another kiss.

He ends up riding Eren good and slow with all the lights still on, the roll of his hips making Eren’s breath hitch. Jean thinks this is it. This was what he was waiting for all these years, watching Eren’s laser focus shatter and dissolve into glazed eyes and abused lips and broken sounds caught between them in shared, hot air. The feeling of Eren inside of him, the friction dizzyingly, lip bitingly good. He’s lightheaded and burning up from it, wants to never escape it.

“You look,” Jean pants, bracing his hands back against the bed for leverage so he can pick up the pace, “so stupid.”

“Keep talkin’,” the corner of Eren’s mouth ticks up in a barely there smirk, trying to rock his hips up to meet Jean. “Second the casts are off I’ll fuck _you_ stupid.”

Jean doesn’t bite back, just clenches down and watches Eren’s face crease, eyes screwed shut as he throws his head back against the pillow. Jean sees the sheen of sweat gleam Eren’s throat, gets lost in the sight, loves how Eren looks below him, god does he love it, he loves this, loves fucking himself on Eren’s cock at four in the morning in Eren’s bed. He moans at the thought, the hand around his own dick, jerking hard and fast.

“Fucking--” Jean gulps, angling himself just right. “I’m gonna come, shit, I’m gonna--”

He spills all over his stomach and hand with a shout, tugging himself through it as his rhythm stutters. It's too good, it's too fucking good as Eren watches Jean come all over himself, eyes so round, face so flushed with hair matted down along his forehead. Jean falls forward, pushing that hair back before and mouth seeking Eren’s as he starts moving again. Gentle circles of his hips, Eren’s whimpers muffled as he pushes back over and over again. He’s still too fucked out to make it anything other than sloppy, but this bone deep haze of being thoroughly used and debauched keeps him going, wanting that feeling to last. Eren doesn’t seem to mind much, and he looks and sounds so good, being made to slow down.

“You mean to tell me,” Jean hisses at the feeling of Eren pulsing inside of him, "that we could’ve been doing this for years?”

Eren can’t say anything, just make his low whining sound as Jean drags himself up, then pushes back down. As slow as he can, making Eren work for it.

“You could’ve been fucking me,” Jean huffs, dragging his lower lip up the shell of Eren's ear, “for years.”

“Jean, don’t--ah,” Eren bucks forward, clumsy cast bumping against the headboard as he goes to grab onto it. Jean sits up, the view too perfect as he watches Eren fall to peices, coming with a force and volume only Eren Jaeger could manage, walls shaking. Jean falls over laughing, and only laughs harder when Eren smacks his stomach.

\--

At 6am, Eren's alarm goes off

“What,” Jean grumbles, opening his eyes, “The fuck.”

“I forgot to turn it off,” Eren croaks next to him, scrambling for the bedstand where his phone is blaring. When he turns back to meet Jean’s glare, he makes a face. “What? I get up at six every day.”

“Fucking freak,” Jean mutters, slamming his fist into the middle of Eren’s too fucking fluffy pillows and smushing his face into the dent. “The only way I’m up at six in the morning is if I didn’t sleep the night before.”

“I like to go running.”

Jean lifts his head again. “That doesn’t make you any less freakish.”

Eren shorts, fingers pulling at Jean’s hair. “Nice bedhead.”

Jean swats his hand away. “Shut up.”

“It’s cute,” Eren says.

Jean feels his cheeks warm. “Shut up.”

“I think you’re cute.”

Jean whips a pillow into Eren’s face. “See if I fuck you ever again.”

“I’m injured,” Eren yanks the pillow away, whining, “You’re abusing the injured.”

“I just want to _sleep.”_ Jean snuffles against Eren’s bare shoulder, muttering, “Can’t believe I’m marrying a morning person…”

He feels Eren tense under him. “You--Jean--”

“Did you mean it when you asked me?” Jean traces his fingers over Eren’s stomach, and when Eren doesn’t answer he looks up and asks, “Did you?”

“I--yeah,” Eren breathes. “Yeah, I meant it.”

“Then I meant it when I said yes,” Jean yawns. “‘S’that simple.”

“But--”

Jean leans up, kissing Eren on the mouth softly, soundly, everything patches of 6am sunlight and the folds of warm blankets and sheets over their naked bodies. He pulls back.

“We can overthink it and freak out when it’s not six in the fucking morning ,” Jean shuffles down, wrapping his arms around Eren’s middle. “Just go back to sleep.”

For all his shit talking, Jean’s the one who can’t fall back asleep. His heart is beating way too fast.

\--

“This,” Jean places the mug on the counter, pushing it away. Far away. “Is not coffee.”

“Oh?” Eren cocks an eyebrow. “What the hell is it, then?”

“I don’t know,” Jean jeers, pushing the cup even farther. “Primordial ooze that solidified and then thawed in Satan’s ass crack.”

Two weeks later, and they’re in Jean’s apartment. It’s a semi-comfortable 10 o’clock--not noon, but definitely not six in the fucking morning. A compromise. One of many.

This shit, though? This unholy cup of what Jean can only assume is dirt mixed with puppy tears? No, Jean refuses. Absolutely refuses.

Eren sips form his own. “It’s herbal coffee.”

Jean parrots tonelessly. “Herbal coffee.”

“Made from roasted dandelion root.”

“Roasted--” Jean cuts himself off, sighng as he drops his head to the table. “That’s it. I can’t take it anymore. We’re getting divorced.”

“We’ve been married for fourteen hours,” Eren rolls his eyes. “Calm down.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t be married to a guy who drinks roasted dandelions instead of actual coffee. It’s never gonna work.”

“Roasted dandelion root. It’s caffiene-free. Maybe if you made the switch you wouldn’t be up all hours of the night and could get out of bed before noon.”

Jean places a hand over Eren’s, making Eren look up as Jean sighs and says, “I love you.”

Jean’s playing dirty, and he knows it, but he can’t help himself. He says it when he wants to say it, refuses to be self-conscious about it. And if it makes Eren’s face go so red he tries to hide it in the crook of his arm like a twelve-year-old, well.

That’s just a perk.

“Shut up,” Eren kicks at him under the table, then leans in expectantly, leaving a small gap for Jean to bridge as their mouths meet in a smacking kiss. He pulls back, just enough to say, “Mikasa’s gonna murder us.”

“Slow and painful and probably public,” Jean agrees. “S’what we get for eloping.”

“It was a dumb idea.”

“So dumb.”

“No one’s gonna be happy about it.”

“Nope.”

Eren pauses, then, bright eyes staring up into Jeans, “I love you, too.”

Jean leans in over the table, bracing one hand on the surface and placing the other over Eren’s cast, fingers brushing against where he wrote in big block letters for everyone to see, _JUST MARRIED._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so now we have the story from Eren's point of view, slightly extended and more than slightly ridiculous.

All of Jean’s Instagram pictures are selfies.

Every last one. His profile is just selfie after selfie with each photo in an endless scroll of pictures having at least a corner of Jean’s big, dumb face tacked to it. Chainsmoking in the park trying to look cool, sitting shirtless on his fire escape, countless mirror selfies all tagged #ootd (which Eren can’t for the life of him decipher), lying in bed (shirtless), drinking coffee (shirtless), cooking (shirtless).

Eren honestly doesn’t mind selfies. He doesn’t really take them (save for the very secret stash of gym progress pictures he has on his computer, all of which he’s cropped his face out of because 98% of them are nude). But he likes seeing his friends, and what’s more he likes seeing his friends knowing they think they’re looking good. There’s something sweet about it.

But when Jean does it, it annoys the shit out of him.

Because Jean really is self-obsessed and constantly trying to show off the stack of newly bought books behind his head so he can let everyone know just _exactly_ how well read he is, or his vinyl collection, or his bong (like really, Jean, are you still in college?)

Eren scrolls down the page, careful not to double-tap anything or hit the little heart in the corner. He’s about 60 weeks back in Jean’s photos, and doesn’t even follow him, so accidentally liking something would be borderline catastrophic. It’d happened once, Eren not realizing it, and Jean had fucking cornered him at the bonfire Connie threw last summer, smirk cut across his dumbass face as he leaned in and went, _So you liked my selfie, huh?_

An all too familiar heat sweeps up the back of his neck, and he throws his phone to the other end of the couch. He hates it. He thought once high school was over it’d be fine, this stupid crush would finally fizzle out and he’d be free to go on and never develop feelings for anyone again, because feelings are the worst.

Eren doesn’t really buy into that whole “technology and social media are the downfall of modern society” thing, or whatever, but he’s very comfortable blaming both of those for the downfall of his peace of mind. (Eren actually can’t remember the last time he had peace of mind. He suspects he might’ve still been in the womb). Because if it hadn’t been for Facebook and Instagram and everything else, he could’ve buried Jean in his high school memory along with trig and stagecrew parites. And stagecrew punch--the first and only time he drank, and it was enough to last a lifetime.

He pinches at the bridge of his nose before leaning forward and grabbing his phone, opening up Facebook. 

It’s an unspoken agreement that they’re not friends, in real life or on the internet. Jean doesn’t follow him, and he doesn’t follow Jean, with the very quiet understanding that they both creep on each other. At least, he suspects Jean does it. 

He scrolls down Jean’s profile page. He does a lot of those online quizzes that tell you total nonsensical bullshit like what Taylor Swift music video is most representative of your spirituality, or What Kind of Food Should You Serve at Your Next Semi-fancy Dinner Party (Eren actually took that one. Jean got truffle oil cheese fries. Eren got rustic garlic mashed potatoes, and quietly freaked for two hours about them both getting spud-based results because apparently he’s still 15).

Jean also has these block paragraph statuses voicing his opinions on various mundane topics that Eren might be the only one reading. Most of them are bullshitty, and Eren laughs when he sees Sasha commenting with “*hour long fart noise*” on some of them, but a few are kind of...he has this one he posted on his mom’s wall for her birthday, and it’s weird and sweet and Eren has a screencap of it tucked away somewhere on his computer.

Jesus Christ, he needs help. He won't ask for it though. He won't even consider trying to stop. He'll just let himself fall over and over, deeper and deeper. Just like he has for over ten years now.

\--

“You phone is going off,” Mikasa cranes her neck to look at the screen. “‘Horseface’ texted you.”

Eren dives for it, freezing with the phone on his hand as he realizes Mikasa and Armin are staring at him. He jumps up, composing himself. “I’ll be in my room.”

“One of these days, you’re going to fall off that garage,” Mikasa says, and Eren freezes. She knows. Of course she knows. “Be careful.”

Eren rolls his eyes. He’s not going to fucking fall off the garage.

\--

Eren fucking fell off the garage.

“Stop moving--you’ll tear the IV right out of your arm,” Mikasa warns.

Eren gives up and collapses back. The drugs have mostly worn off by this point, but they’ve left him dazed and sluggish. He just wants to go home--this room is cold and this food sucks and he wants to go to sleep in his own bed for about a thousands years.

“How are you feeling, Eren?” his dad walks into the room, not even looking up from his clipboard. 

“I wanna go home,” Eren crosses his arms.

His dad’s had a lifetime to adjust to Eren’s crankiness, and ignores it promptly, “Are you in any pain?”

Ere sighs, droning, “No.”

“I’m prescribing him some percocet,” he tells Mikasa, tearing a note off his prescription pad. “Low strength, he should take one or two every 6 hours, depending on how much pain he’s in.”

“Why are you telling her this?” Eren flaps his good arm. “And I’m not taking anything.”

Mikasa’s eyes glint with determination. “I’ll be sure he takes them.”

“Good,” his dad turns to Eren. “Eren, far be it for me to stop you from feeling the pain caused solely by your own stupidity, but I would suggest you not try and fight Mikasa. Ever, but in your present condition especially.”

This. Is. The worst. Eren groans.

“Also,” A warm hand clasped down on Eren’s shoulder. He stared at his father’s smiling face. “Congratulations.”

He left without another word, Eren blinking rapidly. “The hell was that about? Within the past twelve hours did I quit my job as a disappointing kindergarten teacher and graduate from med school?”

Mikasa and Armin share a look like they’ve just settled a bet.

Eren frowns. “What?”

“Why don’t we go home?” Mikasa says. Eren would push more, but he’s tired, and home sounds so nice.

\--

He falls asleep on the car ride, waking with a start when the front tire hits that pothole at the corner of their street. He winces against the sunlight. He’d been so suprised when they’d left the hospital and it was a bright, clear fall day. His entire body has a low, deep ache do it. Before he can stop himself, says, “I keep having this fucking dream...”

“Oh?” Armin leans over and unbuckles Eren before he can make a fuss about it. “What about?”

Out of focus snapshots flash through the front of Eren’s mind, words stringing them together. His cheeks flush. “Nothing.”

“C’mon,” Armin grabs Eren’s bag from the back. “Nothing could be worse than Mikasa’s recurring dreams about giving birth to Levi.”

Mikasa rips the gear shift into park. “We said we’d never bring those up again.”

Eren snorts. “Wasn’t the father Shardis?”

“If you think that just because you’re injured I won’t hit you, you’re very, very mistaken.”

“See?” Armin cuts in, “It’d be hard to out-weird those. So just tell us.”

He looks back and forth between them, and figures what the hell. He’s already fallen off the roof, shit can’t really get any more embarrassing.

“Alright, so. I’m in the hospital, right? Like in the room, and you’re all there, but then all the sudden Jean’s there, too. And I keep,” sweat breaks out over Eren’s forehead, eyes looking down at the white of his cast, the black lines of names already written there. He swallows. “I keep asking him to marry me, until he says yes. It’s so weird.”

There it is again--that look, Armin and Mikasa’s heads snapping towards each other, and then back around to Eren. 

“What?” Eren shrinks back. “The hell’re you looking at me like that for?”

“Well,” Armins starts, and Mikasa gives a quick, discreet shake of her head. “Um.”

Eren’s heart drops straight to the bottom of his gut, a wave of cold washing over his blood. “Oh my god.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Mikasa tries. “Don’t freak out.”

“Don’t freak out?” Eren echoes. “Are you kidding me--I asked Jean Kirschtein to marry me while I was out of my mind on meds, _and you want me to not freak out?”_

“Eren, it’s--” Armin tried. “It was funny. I think he thought--we all thought it was just a joke--”

“Why the hell was he even _there?!”_ Eren booms.

“Ah, well,” Armin is refusing to look Eren in the eye as he talks, “You refused to go into surgery until he, um, showed up. That crossfit you’ve been doing is really paying off, because once you got a deathgrip on the leg of the bed, no one could break it.”

“I could’ve,” Mikasa feels it’s just so necessary right now to remind everyone she’s the strongest human in the world. Her gaze softens. “I was afraid of hurting you, though.”

“So I called him!” Armin throws his hands up, like it’s something to be excited about. “And you proposed. As weird as it was, it was also very cute. Petra says you kept talking about it up until the anesthesia finally knocked you out.”

Mikasa nods. “Extremely cute. I have a video of it on my phone.”

“Please tell me I did not do that,” Eren covers his face with his hand. _“Please fucking tell me I didn’t do that.”_

“You didn’t do that,” Mikasa parrots. “So, do we wanna order out for dinner?”

Eren groans, kicking at the passenger’s seat with his unbroken leg. “I would like a giant cyanide capsule with a side of arsenic.”

She stares. “I was thinking something more along the lines of Indian.”

“Armin can’t handle the spices,” Eren reminds her, exhausted. “And I’m not hungry.”

Her eyes darken. “Eren, you have to eat.”

“I’m not hungry. I’m tired, and I’m humiliated, and I can’t even take my aggression out by running like I usually do because I’ve got _these,”_ Eren waves his cast around. “I want to punch everything in the entire world.”

“Even piles of glass and fire?” Armin lifts an eyebrow.

 _“Especially piles_ of glass and fire.”

“Okay,” Armin opens his door, sliding out of the car. “I think you need a nap.”

Eren slumps down, folding his arms over his chest. “Only if it’s in a bed of glass and fire.”

\--

Later on that night, when he finally fishes his phone out of his bag (his phone, which somehow wasn't damaged in the slightest by the almost two story fall) and plugs it in, he starts reflexively opening up apps. He needs to fill his mind with something else--Connie livetweeting his dentist visit, his mom sharing easy home remedies for soap scum on his aunt's wall, Jean posting a picture of a cup of black coffee and a pack of Parlaiments--

Wait.

He scrolls back up.

"You...have gotta be fucking _kidding me,"_ Eren stares at his screen in...it's not disbelief. He can definitely believe it, and what he hates most is that he's not even a little surprised to see a a post from jeankirschtfine at the top of his Instagram feed. He followed Jean. Of course. Of course he did that. On top of everything else, he broke the cardinal rule of their weird not-friendship. Of course.

He flings his phone across the room, yanks the blankets over his head. He can't even sleep, but the heat and the dark is almost suffocating enough to lull him into something like numbness.

\--

After the long weekend, Eren gets to go back to work. Administration is actually urging him to take another week, but not being able to work out, not being able to do anything but sit with his own gross thoughts (not about Jean, not about Jean, not about _Jean fucking Kirchstein_ ) has left him slightly stir crazy. Most of all, he misses the kids. The second they start filtering into the classroom that morning they go from about zero to 60 the second they see him behind the desk, pulling out the get well soon cards they all made for him. Just like that, life floods back into him.

He’s able to avoid thinking about everything, for the most part, until recess comes along and the kids leave, a familiar voice filling their absence. 

“So,” Marco leans against the classroom doorway. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Eren doesn’t answer, just chucks a pen without looking. He hears it clatter against the floor somewhere.

“Your aim with your left hand sucks,” Marco stoops, picking it up as he walks towards the desk. “Also, I brought you sorry-you-fell-off-a-roof cookies that aren’t really cookies, they’re date bars.”

Eren looks up finally, narrowing his eyes at the tupperware. He loves date bars. Marco knows this, and is choosing to use his knowledge for evil.

Marco peels off the lid, and waves it under Eren’s nose, singing, “They’ve got cashews in them.”

Eren snatches it away. “Fine. Do your worst.”

“If by ‘worst’ you mean expressing my elation at the news that two of my good friends are getting married,” Marco spins the Story Corner chair around, folding his arms over the back as he says, “then yes, I’m about to unleash hell.”

“I was blitzed on painkillers. I didn’t mean it, and neither did he,” Eren rolls his eyes, shuffling a stack of worksheets together. Which is exceedingly difficult with a cast (as are most things, he’s learning.)

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not--” the papers slip out of his hand, spilling all over the floor. That’s it. Eren leans back in his chair, slumping down. “I’m done. I give up. This has been the worst week of my entire life.”

Marco stoops down, kneeling with both of his perfectly functioning legs and gathering the papers with his two perfectly unbroken hands. “He called me yesterday. He’s a bit worked up over the whole thing.”

Eren’s face burns. 

Marco hands over the stack. “You should talk to him.”

Erens rips the papers back. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“You should talk to him and tell him how you feel.”

“I don’t feel anything except maybe a little turned on by those beautiful date bars you brought to butter me up,” Eren spins his chair away, filing the worksheets away in the open drawer.

“Eren, how long do you think you can just keep avoiding this?”

“It’s worked pretty well the past decade, so,” he shrugs, pretending to search through the filing cabinet. “A while.”

Marco reaches over and slams the drawer shut. “Eren.”

Eren whips his head around. “What?”

“I’ve known Jean for a long time,” Marco says, “and he’s been my best friend since we were kids. I know him better than I know anyone. He’s told me things he’d never tell another soul.”

Eren feels his eye twitch. He knows. It used to cause a mean streak of jealousy in him that he’d take out solely on Jean.

“So I’m really tired of this whole secretly not-so-secretly liking each other and avoiding it altogether by being giant twelve year olds about it,” Marco slides off the edge of the desk. “He likes you, too.” 

Eren is somewhat of a self-labeled adrenaline junkie. He’ll try almost anything once, and usually comes back for more--sky diving, base jumping, bungee jumping, free form rock climbing. He took flying lessons and had to pull an emergency landing in the Shigan River. He knows adrenaline, he knows that feeling of being above and beyond his tiny human body, he knows the feeling of staring down the impossible and jumping in head first. 

And all of that has nothing on the feeling of surging, crude need ripping through his body. He feels everything so suddenly and intensely that it leaves him numb, sitting speechless at his desk as Marco smiles at him. The trademark I believe in you smile that’s just a touch too pitying for Eren’s liking. He spinning around, pretending to look for something in a giant messy pile of handprint turkeys.

“Enjoy the not-cookies,” Marco says on his way out, and once his footsteps recede down the hallway Eren folds his arms over the filing cabinet and lays his head against them, the same way his kids do when they don’t feel well.

\--

Mikasa’s critical eyes give him a vicious once-over from just outside the open bathroom door. “Did your kids put Elmer’s in you hair?”

“Shit,” Eren whips back around, glaring at his reflection. The night of Christa’s party, and everything is fighting him from the buttons on his shirt to the ache in his arm and leg, to the throbbing deep in his chest. “I knew I overdid it. I can’t do shit with my left hand.”

“Sit,” she motions to the closed toilet seat, and Eren sets his crutch aside and hunkers down, wincing before the comb even touches him. “You’re anxious.”

“I’m not anxious,” Eren fidgets. “I’m just annoyed.”

“That…?”

“That I’ve gotta wobble around on crutches, that I don’t want to go to this party, that it’s negative seven-hundred degrees out, that you’re _scalping me_ , ow.”

“Sorry,” she says, not meaning it. “And you’re anxious.”

He pouts at their reflection, not caring how much he looks like a two year old. “Am not.”

“And petulant,”she gives another hard tug. “He might not even be there.”

“He’s always there,” Eren mumbles, then frantically backtracks, “And that’s not even--”

Mikasa sighs, loud and noisy.

“Hey, I’m ready when you guys are--oh, wow, did you lose a fight with a glue stick?” Armin peaks his head in.

Mikasa looks back to him. “Tell Eren he needs to calm down.”

“I’ve been telling him that since we were seven,” Armin sags against the doorframe. “I don’t think Eren’s been even almost calm in his entire life.’

“I’m right here!” Eren shouts. “Stop talking about me like I’m not!”

In perfect unison, Mikasa and Armin go, “Eren, calm down.”

\--

Eren wanders through the party, sipping at his seltzer and barely talking to anyone, somehow ending up in the coatroom for a half hour, on his phone, on Jean’s Instagram. He melts a little at the new picture--it’s not a selfie, but he kind of really wishes it was, because he hates that he hasn’t seen Jean’s dumb face in so long. Instead it’s a shot of the manmade lake inside of City Park, the caption simply reading _revelations & resolutions_ which is just so horribly, grossly Jean that Eren can’t stand it.

He needs to go outside. He’s feeling severely overheated, limping through the crowd down into the “off limits” den and out to the patio. He has to abandon his seltzer on the nearby coffee table, because he can’t open the door and balance on a single crutch at the same time. 

He grew up in woods like these, not too far from Christa’s house actually. But “not too far” in the boonies was still a good ten or so miles. Still, the woods have always made him feel calmer. The smell of damp dirt, wood, the sweeping scent of dead leaves as fall gives into winter. Almost chilled, but not quiet, and it greets him not just now in this moment, but it meets him back at age twenty. And again at seventeen, eleven, six, as far back as his body can remember. It quiets his buzzing nerves, and he seats himself at steps leading down into the sunken garden.

He’s out there for maybe fifteen minutes tops before he hears, “Glad to see they didn’t have to amputate.”

Eren gives himself whiplash turning his head so fast, heart throbbing inside of his chest at the sight of Jean standing there, the long lines of his body clean cut in warm colored clothes, softened by the string of globe lights overhead. He’s painfully good looking. Painfully.

Eren turns back around, and braces himself.

\--

In the end, he braced himself for the wrong thing, and somehow he ends up walking with Jean Kirchstein through a party of people all giving them knowing looks. None more self satisfyingly all-knowing than the three pairs of gleaming eyes staring Eren down as he comes out of the coat room with his jacket, Mikasa, Marco and Armin standing at the edge of the hall. Like wolves. He catches a glimpse of Jean (that asshole) already at the front door shooting him a grimace over the heads of everyone before ducking out without a word. Eren looks forward again, stammering, “Um.”

“Going home?” Armin leans in, waggling his eyebrows.

“I would be,” Eren grunts, “if you guys would friggin’ move.”

“This moment has been over ten years in the making,” Marco makes a show out of pretending to wipe a fake tear from his eye, sniffling. “Let us enjoy it.”

Mikasa grips at Eren’s shoulder where she definitely knows there's still a huge, dark bruise, squeezing. “Be safe. Communicate. Try to take it slow.”

“Oh my god,” Eren wants to charge past them, but storming off is another exceedingly difficult thing to accomplish with a broken leg. So he hobbles past with an exasperated, “Bye, I’m gonna go get laid.”

Cue three simultaneous and over dramatic gagging noises.

\--

“You left me,” Eren slams the passenger’s door shut. “You literally fed me to the wolves.”

“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” Jean groans, pulling the gear shift into reverse. “But the last thing I needed was their smug-asses glibly asking me why I was leaving so early.”

“So you left me to suffer alone,” Eren slinks down. “That’s low, Jean, even for you.”

“I promise, I’ll make it up to you.”

Eren glares, but he’s grinning. “You better.”

\--

Jean’s bare thighs straddling Eren’s hips more than make up for it, that zing of skin on skin as he watches Jean strip off his sweater, cheeks red and hair mussed, his smile almost shy. So much better than a picture on the tiny screen, so warm and real in front of him, in his reach, Eren can’t help but run his hand up the length of Jean’s tosro. From the thatch of dark hair below his naval to the smooth plains of his chest, rubbing the pad of his thumb over a hard nipple and loving the way it make Jean’s eyes flutter for a second.

There’s rummaging through the bedside table, a box and bottle produced, Eren holding his breath as he watches Jean pour lube onto his fingers and reach behind him. It happens so fast Eren can barely process it, and by the time he does Jean’s biting at his bottom lip and grunting quietly. Eren feels his mind go hazy like it gets on the meds, half-lidded eyes watching Jean’s face pink up beautifully.

He hates that Jean is doing everything by himself, but he what he hates more is that Jean’s got him so dazed he’s not even trying to fight it. The arch of his back, those sounds, the fact that Jean’s above him, fingering himself open to fuck himself on Eren’s cock is so absolutely, mindnumbingly out of this world he can’t stand it.

The casts are killing him. Eren wants to be about to _touch_ Jean. He wants to hike Jean’s legs up over his shoulders and plow into him until they collapse from exhaustion, wake up in a few hours, and do it all over again. He wants--god, he thought once he had he’d stop wanting so much, but he feels needier than ever. He wants to hold on and never let go, settling for Jean making them come apart together.

"Fuck, this is so good," Jean hisses, throwing his head back. "So fucking good--Eren."

And Eren's in so deep he can't even tell which way is up anymore.

\--

Eren meant it when he asked Jean to marry him. It’d been this strange fixation of his for years now, he’s not sure where or how or why exactly it’s so sweet sounding to him, but it is. His parents marriage, as odd as it always seemed nice to him. Someone there to push back, to be louder, to hold him down and lift him up at the same time. Always, constantly. The crazy vastness of forever held up in promise between two people, between the flaws and the hurt and the mistakes, the heartache and the sweet nothings and need--endless and overwhelming and home. Eren has always liked the idea of that, and somehow that idea showed up somewhere down the line as one Jean Kirschtein.

So the Morning After, when Jean wakes up and finds Eren in the kitchen pushing turkey bacon around on a frying pan in between sips of tea , he says a sleeping _morning_ while scratching at his tummy and matting down his hair, Eren is trying his hardest to keep his cool. So, so hard, because all he can think of is Jean telling him _I can’t believe I’m marrying a morning person_ over and over on repeat.

"I'm making bacon," Eren's shaky hand bring his tea up to his lips, murmuring against the rim, "I'd try to make eggs, but the cast is probably not gonna let me do that, so."

“Hey,” Jean bumps his hip with Eren’s. He turns his head, Jean's face so close Eren can see the sheath of blond eyelashes flutter. “I love you.”

Eren drops his mug, and Jean spends the next five minutes cleaning.

“Are we not supposed to say it?” Jean asks, soaking up the tea with a huge wad of napkins. “Because if we’re getting married, I think we should have the ‘I love you’s down before we roll up to the church.”

“You didn’t give me any warning!” Eren shouts, nudging Jean’s shoulder with his bare foot from his spot leaning against the counter.

“I do,” Jean looks up, picking up the last bits of shattered mug. “I love you. God knows why, but I do.”

Eren feels like his entire body is on fire, knows he must be brick red.

A shrug. “You don’t have to say it back if you don’t want to.”

Wait, no, shit, that’s right--say it back, Jaeger, _say it back!_

“After all, I am the more emotionally mature one in this relationship,” Jean sings, most self-satisfied fucking grin slapped across his face as he throws the broken shards into the garbage. “So I understand you’re just not ready to say something of such a magnitude--”

“Shut the fuck up!” Eren kicks him hard enough to push him over “I love you, too, asshole.”

Jean sprawls out on the kitchen floor, laughing with his whole body as Eren keeps shouting at him. It’s the first of many mornings like this.

\--

“Is this a good idea?” Jean asks, the glow of the tiny chapel just beyond his profile. 

“You were the one who said yes. Both times,” Eren reminds him, taking off his seatbelt. “But if you want, we can wait. Do it proper with everyone there, rings, cake, the whole shebang.”

“I want to, I really want to right now,” Jean shakes his head. “We already applied for the license, they’re waiting for us inside...and I really, really fucking want to.”

“Then,” Eren places his cast-wrapped hand over Jean’s, “Let’s do it.”

Whatever doubt that was clouding Jean’s face dissipates with a smile.

\--

Mikasa is unnervingly calm when they tell her, sitting across from them at Jean’s kitchen table, taking an easy sip of tea before going, “You’ll just have to do it again.”

Eren and Jean look at each other, then back to her, saying at the same time, “What?”

For a month Eren is so sure it’s an elaborate trick and that she’s actually going to like, smother them in their sleep. But, after countless nights clinging to each other in bed and jumping at even the slighted bump in the dark, all Mikasa does is bring them samples of flower arrangements, venue possibilities, tux options.

“I think Eren should be the one walked down the aisle,” she clicks the pen open, looking down at her clipboard. “By me.”

“Wouldn’t Dad just do it?” Eren asks. “Also, who says I want to be the one walked down the aisle?”

“I’m saying,” she squints at him, tone clearly spelling out that there is pain involved with objecting. 

He sighs, looking to Jean. “And you’re just okay with all of this?” 

Jean shrugs, toying with one of the example party favors Mikasa brought with her. A heart shaped skeleton key bottle opener that’ll have their names engraved across the top. “It actually sounds kind of nice.”

“Of course you want a giant party that’s all about you,” Eren glares, the deflates. “Whatever. Can we get something cooler as a wedding favor, though? Like jump ropes or barbells or something?”

“I can’t believe I married a fucking ridiculous fitness obsessed asshole,” Jean lets his forehead collide with the table, “who wants barbells as party favors at our re-wedding.”

“Okay, barbells might be kinda unrealistic,” Eren says, “so maybe like five pound hand weights instead?”

Jean, being the dramatic asshole that he is, literally slumps down to the floor.

\--

“Hey, for dinner, I was thinking--” Jean turns, stopping. “You got your casts off.”

Eren stuffs his hands ( _both_ hands) into his pockets, shrugging.

He frowns. “You didn’t let me come with you.”

Eren steps forward. “Turn the oven off.”

Jean blushes, and when he doesn’t move Eren reaches out and does it for him.

“I saved the arm cast,” he tells Jean, grabbing at his hips. “Don’t be mad.”

Jean exhales through his nose, draping his arms over Eren’s shoulders. They sway together for a moment, and Eren thinks how crazy it is that he keeps falling deeper and deeper in love with a guy who was about to make a frozen pizza for dinner. 

\--

“You’re,” Jean pants, arching his hips up off the bed, “The _worst.”_

“I told you this would happen,” Eren watches Jean try to fuck back onto his fingers, clenching down when Eren hooks his index at exactly the right spot. Jean mewls, cock twitching against his stomach. “It’s your fault for not believing me.”

“You said you’d fuck me stupid,” Jean tries to compose himself enough to speak, corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “That has yet to happen.”

Eren slides his fingers out, too quickly judging by the shout Jean gives, and grabs at his waist to pull him down the bed. Condom rolled on, Jean propped up on his forearms, watching with sharp eyes. Eren presses the tip in, drunk on the feeling as he sees Jean’s face fold, hears those sweet littles sounds Jean’s trying so desperate to bite back as he slides in. The friction is enough to expel all the breath from Eren’s lungs, mouth falling open in a silent scream with the barest _ah_ escpaing.

They haven’t done this in over a week, with Jean having a string of weddings to shoot, and Eren caught up in the end of the school year. And it’s the first time without those clumsy-ass casts getting in the way. And it’s everything. God, it’s everything, sinking slowly into Jean again and gain, feeling that heat suck him in so tight it almost hurts. As Jean hums low, turning even redder somehow. He used to give Jean so much shit for it in high school, the way he’d blush at everything, how his skin made it so easy to tell, blotchy and bright and impossible not to notice. God, if his fifteen-year-old self even knew that Jean blushed with his whole body, that Jean let out needy whines whenever Eren paused, that Jean panted and shouted when Eren pounded into him, slick and slapping and hot. That Jean could fucking bend in half with his legs hitched up over Eren’s shoulders--

Christ, his teenage self would’ve exploded.

“Nng, fuckfuck _fuck--”_ Jeans hands gripped onto the headboard, bed creaking underneath them. “Eren.”

“You like it like this?” Eren pushes his sweat damp hair back. “You like getting fucked like this--me pinning you down and making you take it?”

Jean tries to glare, but it’s shattered when Eren grabs his hips and slams back inside. Jean moans, back arching and mouth falling slack. “Fuck. Fuck. Shit.”

“I’ll fuck you like his every day for the rest of our lives if that’s what you really want,” Eren turns his head, nipping at the inside of Jean’s knee as he slows. 

“Why the hell are you stopping?” Jean whines, kicking his heels against Eren’s back. He’s breathing heavy, all sweat slick and pink. Eren’s hips bump forward reflexively, and Jean presses back into the feeling, urging, “C’mon. Keep fucking me, _come on.”_

“You’re too fucking hot,” Eren sighs, bringing Jean’s legs around his waist, leaning forward on his hands. “If I don’t stop I’m gonna come in two seconds flat.”

Jean has the gall to look embarrassed right now, covering his face with his forearm. “Christ.”

“I’m literally inside of you, and you’re getting all embarrassed because I said I was gonna come?” Eren wraps a hand around Jean’s wrist, trying to pull it away. 

Jean resists, “And because you’re looking at me like--”

Eren pins that wrist down against the pillow. “Like what?”

Jean’s mouth snaps shut.

Eren swivels his hips, moving just enough to make Jean squirm and bite his lip. “Like what, Jean?”

“You know what,” Jean spits, “You _know.”_

Like you’re the only other person in the world, Eren thinks. He falls forward, chest flush with Jean’s as he tangles his fingers in that shaggy hair and kisses him soundly, wetly, rocking forward. Jean makes a surprised _ah!_ tearing his mouth away to gasp. Eren nips along his jaw, pulling back, then forward again, slow and rhythmic and making Jean’s choke on his breath every time the cradle of Eren’s hips is flush with the curve of Jean’s ass.

“Eren, fuck, don’t stop,” Jean gulps for air. “I’m gonna come.”

“With me, do it with me,” Eren snakes a hand down between their bodies, wrapping around Jean’s cock. “C’mon, I got you. I got you, Jean, you’re so fucking beautiful--mm, _fuck.”_

“Eren,” Jean keeps chanting when Eren’s not biting those lips for him, arms wound so tightly around Eren’s neck. “Eren, Eren, please!”

Once Jean starts spilling out all over his stomach, coming hard and loud with his back arching off of the bed, Eren is seconds behind, fucking his way through the rolling waves of _yes, fuck, yes, Jean, yes_ right over the edge and falling down, down, down.

Jean bites his bottom lip as Eren reaches down to pull out nice and easy, peeling the condom down and tying it off.

“That,” Eren rolls onto his back, gasping, “was _intense.”_

There’s just a vague grunt from Jean, laying there with his arms and legs spread, bright pink and sheen with sweat, come still all over his stomach. 

Eren reaches over and pinches his nipple. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“You just fucked the life out of me,” Jean groans, pushing the damp fringe out of his face, “Let me rest, you bastard.”

Eren snuggles closer. “Come on.”

“Ew stop, you’re sweaty and sticky and I’m overheated,” Jean tries to slap him away. 

There’s a glass of water on the nightstand from earlier, and Eren supposes it’s immature of him to reach over and empty it all over Jean’s face, but it’s also really considerate of him.

Jean bolts upright, wiping frantically at his face before he whips his head around, glare burning into Eren. “I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

Jean doesn’t kill him. Just chases him into the bathroom where Eren can hose him down, because Jean would regret it when he woke up if he didn’t clean up before going to sleep. 

\--

“Eren, holy shit, look at this.”

Eren’s just come back from his run, hair pinned back and mouth full of protein bar as he walks to meet Jean halfway through the kitchen. “Mm?”

“Marco just sent this to me,” he holds up his phone, pressing the play button on a video. “Look.”

For a second it’s all jumbled angles and distorted sound, but then the camera is right side up and aimed towards--

“Oh,” Eren swallows the food in his mouth, “My god.”

It’s them. It’s a video of them at the hospital over half a year ago, Eren on a hospital bed with bruises and cuts all up and down his exposed skin and a vice grip on Jean’s arm.

“Mikasa put it up last week,” Jean runs a hand through his hair, face pink. “It already has over two million views.”

Eren snatches the phone, watching a moment he could up to this point only half-remember. His heart gives a small flutter, and he grins. “Aw.”

“'Aw'?! That’s all you have to say?” Jean rounds on him, wide-eyed and clearly frazzled.

“I think it’s nice that we have this,” Eren stares down at the screen, pressing play again. “Technology’s amazing.”

“I--you know what?” Jean sags. “It’s fine. I give up.”

“I’m gonna share it on your Facebook,” Eren says, tapping at the screen.

Jean yanks the phone back, shouting, “No you are _not,_ Jesus Christ.”

“If you do, I’ll selfie with you.”

Jean considers him for a moment.

“And we’ll both post it at the same time. It’ll be super couple-y and all of our friends will puke.”

And just like that, Jean breaks. “Deal.”

\--

The ceremony is small, simple, in Christa’s backyard. It’s become full and flush with springtime in the months they’ve been away, and Eren supposes it feels pretty right to say their vows in the same place they finally got their shit together and sucked face for the first time. They'd nixed the tux option early on in favor for pressed slacks and button downs, Jean opting for suspenders and a bowtie because he’s weird. (And cute. But mostly weird.)

They keep their vows short, sweet, and to the point.

“I promise to love you even when you send me pictures of Guy Fieri eating cheeseburgers at four in the morning because you’re a sick fuck who needs to sort out his life,” Eren strokes the pads of his thumbs over Jean’s knuckles. “I promise to be there to help you sort it out.”

“I promise to love you even though you’re a gross-ass morning person who drinks roasted dandelions instead of actual coffee,” Jean holds his hands tighter. “And when you accidentally fall off the garage roof I promise to sit with you in the back of the ambulance.”

Aw jeez, his mom is definitely crying. This whole this was supposed to be a joke, but now his mom’s crying and his throat is tightening up, and Jean’s looking at him with _that look_ and--

And Eren doesn’t know how but it feels like he just fell in love all over again.

\--

Honestly, the reception’s not too different from any other party they’ve been to over the years. Granted, there aren’t any old cars being lit on fire or giant bowls of stage crew punch, and everyone’s dressed a little nicer with their hair combed and their shoes shined. But somehow, even at their wedding reception, Jean and Eren seem to be the butt of everyone’s joke--they’re all telling _remember when_ stories and cutting each other off in dissolving fits of tipsy laughter. The Desk Incident has already been brought up four different times, once by their moms. "I just knew," his mom says, motioning with a glass full of something suspiciously punch-like, "I knew the second I had to drive down on my lunch hour to talk to Principal Pixis on the first day of school that it wouldn't be the last."

Eren wants to call bullshit, but everyone's laughing too hard to even pay him any mind. His thoughts must show on his face, because Jean's roping him onto the dance floor by the waist as "At Last" sweeps over the garden.

"How was taking photos of those insurance agents on their business retreat-slash-maybe orgy?" Eren asks. It’s been five days since the last time they saw each other, and all he wants to really do is make out with his husband somewhere without someone making fun of them.

"If there was an orgy, the photographer was not invited," Jean shrugs. "How was your bungee jumping bachelor party?"

"Awesome. Marco puked over the side of the bridge before I got him to jump."

"There was puke at mine, too!" Jean actually looks thrilled. "Ben from HR ate too many hotdogs before the trust falls and puked all over Martha from a sales' shoes."

"I've honestly never felt more connected to you than right at this moment," Eren is only being half-sarcastic. Something about Etta James is making him feel a little soppy and clingy.

Jean hums, apparently feeling the same because the arms around Eren's shoulder pull him in closer.

“So,” Eren wind his arms around Jean's waist a bit tighter. “I know these woods pretty well.”

Jean cocks an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“There’s a lake not too far from here. A ten minute drive up to the East Bend, then it’s a straight walk due north up the ravine. There’s a path and everything.”

“Are you suggesting,” Jean leans in, “That we ditch our own reception to go running through the woods?”

“To a lake. Where there may or may not already be some sleeping bags and food that someone may or may not have left there.”

Jean’s laugh is soft as he drops his head to rest on Eren’s shoulder. He lifts it again a moment later, just enough to press his lips to Eren’s ear. “I’m gonna get Armin to lead a conga line, and when that inevitably ends in chaos and destruction we’ll make a break for my truck.”

“That’s diabolical,” he plants a smacking kiss to the corner of Jean’s mouth. “I love you.”

“Eren, I know I said I’d be with you forever, but like, don’t make it weird, man.”

Eren gets one last good swat to the shoulder in before Jean runs off to find Armin. He spins on his heel, the burn in his cheeks from smiling so hard matching the ache in his chest. He realized a good long while ago that this ache's probably never going away. It used to kill him. It almost did kill him, pretty literally, by flinging him off a roof. Still, somehow, Eren never wants it to end.

\--

They pull up to the path at the small clearing around the bend, and in the fading daylight and cell reception, Jean pulls Eren in for a selfie. A kiss in the sunset with matching middle fingers, and they count down before posting it at the same exact time with the caption _left for our honeymoon a bit early. suck it_

“Are we being assholes?” Jean asks, turning his phone off.

“Definitely,” Eren shrugs, holding out his hand. “We can go back if you want.”

Jean takes it in his own, squeezing. We’re married, Eren thinks, suddenly lightheaded. They’ve _been_ married, but somehow right now, holding hands in the woods with everything smelling like springtime, it feels so much more real.

“I don’t know how you convince me to do the things we do,” Jean shakes his head, smiling all the while.

“It’s ‘cause you know we make a good team,” Eren says, walking backwards as he pulls Jean towards the trees. “And also my incredible stamina in bed.”

“Dude, shut up,” Jean laughs. “You’re such a gross loser.”

“A gross loser that you married,” Eren looks back over his shoulder, “Twice.”

Jean rips his hand away, hoisting himself up to jump on Eren’s back. Eren hooks his hands under Jean’s knees, holding on tight as they fall into the woods together, deeper and deeper.

 

_end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a little longer to get out than I was expecting hahaha ;-; i got sidetracked from writing porn by writing other porn. if you wanna come yell at me about getting my porn-orities in check (get it like priorities get it get it) then come on down to chillnaxin.tumblr.com for all your misguided porny needs.
> 
> thanks so much for reading!


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